The first thing he noticed was the noise.
A burst. An explosion pierced through his ears as the bullets of the gun found their way out of the chamber. It was loud. Louder than he had ever heard before. As his body rocked and his body slipped and as his body fell to the ground the only thing he noticed was the noise of the gun piercing its way through his head.
That was him.
He had done that.
And a thunk sounded as the back of his head hit the ground. The cold of the water pierced its way through his clothes, the high pitched noise of the aftermath pierced its way into his mind, but he couldn’t feel. Couldn’t hear. As the vibrations of the water touched his body all he noticed was the bang. The explosion. The burst of the bullets.
The noise faded, though, and everything came back. The pain in the back of his head. The cold of his body. The colour of the walls and the ceiling.
The one person still in the room.
His hands shook. Clutched. The gun was still there. The person was still there. He had to act, he had to do-
Wait, but-
No. He did. He had to. He was still there. He was angry. Alvaro knew he was. The person hadn’t said anything the person hadn’t expressed anger or shown Alvaro his feelings but Alvaro knew because he did that the gunshot was his and everyone had ran away and he was scary and he was a monster now and he had killed and everyone knew that and now he was going to take his anger out on Alvaro. Wait. No. No. No. No. No. This was going to happen again. No. No. This wasn’t going to happen again. He wasn’t going to let this be like the last times. The time he didn’t do anything until it was too late and when they took advantage of that. No. He had to act. Fight. Be brave. Be selfish and think of himself, for once. He had to just
Had to just
He closed his eyes. He clenched the gun in his hands.
And slowly, he began to stand up.
Coming Out Of The Closet
Yep
Ben could hear the echos. Noises, but they weren't coming from his ears. Screams, but they were coming from his nerves. Juicy, pulpy bone fragments were like shrapnel to his arm. He gulped down the shuddering moans of pain. Gulped for air, but he only seemed to get little sips. Dribbles from life's lardy teat.
Ben's face was blank. Void as the coupons and receipts in the kitchen drawers of yesteryear, void as the pairs of eyes left sifting through the smoldering wreckage and brackish puddles.
Ben watched the shooter stand. Their eyes met, but Ben was pretty sure neither of them were actually looking at each other. What was there left to see? A wreck of a boy.
And someone he'd once known as Alvaro.
He could still make a difference. Make this his final, honest to goodness meaningful stand. His Bastogne, through the rocket's blood red glare. Prove something to anyone who watched and cared to understand what they were watching. Prove... something. Fucking something. Maybe something like bullets not being the final word. Maybe that there was something else, something better, worth saying still. But, maybe. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe the only word that would matter in the end would be the bullets. They'd be the final word, the good-bye. All of Ben's life would be a flash, a blip. His final moments would be a blur, kicking and screaming and heaving like a little pittance of bits and pieces of baby. For all the world to see.
Ben could hear his own blood through the hollows of his ears. The electric sound of a flatline. Cold and sterile.
He'd promised his the powers that be, on behalf of his dad. Promised them all he'd be something. That he'd make a difference.
Promises. The world couldn't see those. Every other time he'd promised, he'd held his head up high, stiff, proud against adversity. He'd marched forward. Right into the enemy. Right into his own idiotic demise. And that's all the world knew of Ben Fields. The world didn't know promises, thoughts. It knew words, it knew actions. It knew the things Ben had failed at.
It knew he was running. That he was just merely running. Vaulting from the floor, running and panting, and shedding flakes of blood and flakes of skin skittering to earth in his wake. An explosion of Ben towards the door, an explosion of bullets in his wake. But he was faster, and he made the home run with a flailing of feet beneath him. A grunt and a slide, and he couldn't see anything except for the exit anymore. Not his killer-to-be, not his audience. Least of all himself.
Ben retreated. He knew the word for this one, at least.
So did everyone the world over else.
Coward.
((Ben Fields continued in Haunted Reality))
Ben's face was blank. Void as the coupons and receipts in the kitchen drawers of yesteryear, void as the pairs of eyes left sifting through the smoldering wreckage and brackish puddles.
Ben watched the shooter stand. Their eyes met, but Ben was pretty sure neither of them were actually looking at each other. What was there left to see? A wreck of a boy.
And someone he'd once known as Alvaro.
He could still make a difference. Make this his final, honest to goodness meaningful stand. His Bastogne, through the rocket's blood red glare. Prove something to anyone who watched and cared to understand what they were watching. Prove... something. Fucking something. Maybe something like bullets not being the final word. Maybe that there was something else, something better, worth saying still. But, maybe. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe the only word that would matter in the end would be the bullets. They'd be the final word, the good-bye. All of Ben's life would be a flash, a blip. His final moments would be a blur, kicking and screaming and heaving like a little pittance of bits and pieces of baby. For all the world to see.
Ben could hear his own blood through the hollows of his ears. The electric sound of a flatline. Cold and sterile.
He'd promised his the powers that be, on behalf of his dad. Promised them all he'd be something. That he'd make a difference.
Promises. The world couldn't see those. Every other time he'd promised, he'd held his head up high, stiff, proud against adversity. He'd marched forward. Right into the enemy. Right into his own idiotic demise. And that's all the world knew of Ben Fields. The world didn't know promises, thoughts. It knew words, it knew actions. It knew the things Ben had failed at.
It knew he was running. That he was just merely running. Vaulting from the floor, running and panting, and shedding flakes of blood and flakes of skin skittering to earth in his wake. An explosion of Ben towards the door, an explosion of bullets in his wake. But he was faster, and he made the home run with a flailing of feet beneath him. A grunt and a slide, and he couldn't see anything except for the exit anymore. Not his killer-to-be, not his audience. Least of all himself.
Ben retreated. He knew the word for this one, at least.
So did everyone the world over else.
Coward.
((Ben Fields continued in Haunted Reality))
V8 Vibes:
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Yugikun
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There were steps to the process.
Hand under body. Hand pushing body up. Turn. Other hand on the ground. Other hand pushing body up. Look behind as this is done because he didn’t know what was happening or where the other person was and it could happen at any time and he could be hit again and he couldn’t let that happen. Get up. Look behind again. Those were the steps. They weren’t fast. They weren’t fast but they had to be because no no no he needed to get up there was going to be a fight he knew it he had to stand up he had to get the gun up at them again he knew he couldn’t make it like Min-jae and Jonathan and Scout again and he just had to get up and stand and be who you’ve made yourself at this point and stop thinking fight and drive them away and just get up.
And he did. He stood up. Looked behind him.
The sound of the splashing waves was all that remained. The rippling of the water, the ringing of the halls in his ears.
The tinge of red, in the water below him.
He did that.
That was his fault.
He had fough- no, attacked them. There wasn’t any denying what he had just done to them, his friends, his teammates, his customers. He knew that. He wasn’t going to deny it. There was no point. He had attacked them. That was his fault. The blood tinged in the water - a part of a friend, however small - was his reminder.
But they weren’t dead. It wasn’t their body, in the water. There was relief there, and it came from many places. They were still alive. They weren’t dead. They were still somewhere out there and when the man on the speakers started talking again tomorrow they weren’t going to know that he had killed another one of his friends.
And they had ran away. They were scared. Injured.
They didn’t attack him.
The water was tinged. Bits of red, slowly fading out until no trace remained. The blood of a friend. Parts of a friend.
He had done that.
And a feeling - one he had never felt before; not here, not anywhere - came upon him, all at once. Feeding. Stealing. Robbing. His energy left him. He took a step. Stumbled, slightly. Got his balance back. Lost it. Took a step. Another. Another. Another.
And his body hit the wall. It span, his mind was spinning. The walls weren’t there, they were moving. Around him. Spinning. There was a feeling and-
It stopped. The walls stopped moving. The room stopped spinning. He had done that. There was a gun in his hands. He had pointed it up, at his friends, and he had pulled the trigger. He didn’t know what happened after that, but they were gone. The blood - the stick, in the water - was the only thing that told him they existed in the first place.
He had done that.
That was his fault.
He knew that.
He wasn’t going to deny it.
He had attacked them. He thought he had to. The kid to his right could kill him at any moment, so he just had to be the one sitting there. He had done it before. He could do it again. And he had to. They knew. They hated him. They weren’t going to forgive him for anything that he had done. For being who he was. For doing what he did. So he just had to act first. Fight. Win. Get off this island. Stop playing this game, he just had to get up. Stand. Be who he had made himself at this point. Stop thinking. Fight. Drive them away and just get up.
His hands were shaking. Did he want to do that?
No, he didn’t.
But he had to.
He knew that.
He knew that he just had to. He couldn’t stop it. There were people out there - Min-jae, Scout, Lily, Jonathan; the names had been on a record at this point - who would try. Who wouldn’t stop. Who wouldn’t fail, if he didn’t do anything. So he had to fight back. Do something. Get up.
And there was a gun, still in his hands after everything that had happened. He could do it. He could fight. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he had to.
He didn’t know.
He just
Shook his head. He couldn’t stay here. He knew that. He just had to- he didn’t know. Work himself off the wall. Keep holding the gun.
Walk forward.
Get up.
He took a step.
Stand.
He took a step. Another. His body was normal again. The entrance - the one way outside of where he was - was standing in front of him. It was simple. One more step. That was all he needed.
Be who he had made himself, at this point.
One last step was taken before he disappeared from view.
((Alvaro Vacanti, continued elsewhere))
Hand under body. Hand pushing body up. Turn. Other hand on the ground. Other hand pushing body up. Look behind as this is done because he didn’t know what was happening or where the other person was and it could happen at any time and he could be hit again and he couldn’t let that happen. Get up. Look behind again. Those were the steps. They weren’t fast. They weren’t fast but they had to be because no no no he needed to get up there was going to be a fight he knew it he had to stand up he had to get the gun up at them again he knew he couldn’t make it like Min-jae and Jonathan and Scout again and he just had to get up and stand and be who you’ve made yourself at this point and stop thinking fight and drive them away and just get up.
And he did. He stood up. Looked behind him.
The sound of the splashing waves was all that remained. The rippling of the water, the ringing of the halls in his ears.
The tinge of red, in the water below him.
He did that.
That was his fault.
He had fough- no, attacked them. There wasn’t any denying what he had just done to them, his friends, his teammates, his customers. He knew that. He wasn’t going to deny it. There was no point. He had attacked them. That was his fault. The blood tinged in the water - a part of a friend, however small - was his reminder.
But they weren’t dead. It wasn’t their body, in the water. There was relief there, and it came from many places. They were still alive. They weren’t dead. They were still somewhere out there and when the man on the speakers started talking again tomorrow they weren’t going to know that he had killed another one of his friends.
And they had ran away. They were scared. Injured.
They didn’t attack him.
The water was tinged. Bits of red, slowly fading out until no trace remained. The blood of a friend. Parts of a friend.
He had done that.
And a feeling - one he had never felt before; not here, not anywhere - came upon him, all at once. Feeding. Stealing. Robbing. His energy left him. He took a step. Stumbled, slightly. Got his balance back. Lost it. Took a step. Another. Another. Another.
And his body hit the wall. It span, his mind was spinning. The walls weren’t there, they were moving. Around him. Spinning. There was a feeling and-
It stopped. The walls stopped moving. The room stopped spinning. He had done that. There was a gun in his hands. He had pointed it up, at his friends, and he had pulled the trigger. He didn’t know what happened after that, but they were gone. The blood - the stick, in the water - was the only thing that told him they existed in the first place.
He had done that.
That was his fault.
He knew that.
He wasn’t going to deny it.
He had attacked them. He thought he had to. The kid to his right could kill him at any moment, so he just had to be the one sitting there. He had done it before. He could do it again. And he had to. They knew. They hated him. They weren’t going to forgive him for anything that he had done. For being who he was. For doing what he did. So he just had to act first. Fight. Win. Get off this island. Stop playing this game, he just had to get up. Stand. Be who he had made himself at this point. Stop thinking. Fight. Drive them away and just get up.
His hands were shaking. Did he want to do that?
No, he didn’t.
But he had to.
He knew that.
He knew that he just had to. He couldn’t stop it. There were people out there - Min-jae, Scout, Lily, Jonathan; the names had been on a record at this point - who would try. Who wouldn’t stop. Who wouldn’t fail, if he didn’t do anything. So he had to fight back. Do something. Get up.
And there was a gun, still in his hands after everything that had happened. He could do it. He could fight. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he had to.
He didn’t know.
He just
Shook his head. He couldn’t stay here. He knew that. He just had to- he didn’t know. Work himself off the wall. Keep holding the gun.
Walk forward.
Get up.
He took a step.
Stand.
He took a step. Another. His body was normal again. The entrance - the one way outside of where he was - was standing in front of him. It was simple. One more step. That was all he needed.
Be who he had made himself, at this point.
One last step was taken before he disappeared from view.
((Alvaro Vacanti, continued elsewhere))